


Like Ships in the Night

by tortuosity



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, Fluff, One Shot, Purple Hawke, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 21:49:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17568566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tortuosity/pseuds/tortuosity
Summary: Isabela had one rule: never stay the night.





	Like Ships in the Night

Isabela had one rule: never stay the night. She wasn’t particularly superstitious, but something about dawn’s first rays filtering through the window to illuminate her and a dalliance blissfully passed out gave her the willies. It just wasn’t done. You have your fun, take a few seconds to catch your breath and clean up, put your clothes back on, and off you go into the night. Or off the dalliance goes. Or dalliances, plural. Whichever. No snoring, no morning breath, no breakfast, no complications. Easy.

She told Hawke this, the first time. “That’s fine,” Hawke replied, blasé as always. “Wouldn’t want the neighbors to start talking, would we?” Her tone suggested that she would like nothing more, but she respected the rule. They would meet at Hawke’s estate, the Hanged Man, or other more clandestine and spontaneous locations, release some tension, and part with little to show for it later besides small knowing smiles.

And that was all it was. Until they gradually started spending less time in shadowy corners and more time in Hawke’s bed. More kissing, more caressing, more eye contact. More intimacy, more vulnerability. More blushing. More horrible fluttery feelings she couldn’t stamp out. “Just fucking” was all it was. Until it wasn’t.

Isabela woke up in Hawke’s arms. The room was washed in shadows, the only light in the room coming from the dying embers in the hearth. She bit back a curse and gingerly slipped out from under Hawke’s limp, sleep-leaden arm. It was cold and rainy outside, as it always seemed to be those days, and the sudden absence of a warm body’s embrace set Isabela to shivering almost immediately. She noted with some small absurd sense of satisfaction that the sliver of moon peeking out from the clouds was still high in the sky. She hadn’t _technically_ broken the rule. If she could just sneak out and make it back to Lowtown, she could safely go on pretending this was simple. Shouldn’t be too hard. Sneaking was kind of her _thing_ , after all.

Andraste's blessed ass, where were her clothes? It was impossible to see anything, and she didn’t dare light a candle or stir the fireplace back to life. Damn mages could just wiggle their fingers and _poof_ , fire, but sadly, Isabela’s fingers, gifted as they were, weren’t gifted in _that_ particular way. Maybe she could just throw on one of Hawke’s overcoats? She dashed that thought away as quick as it came. Once you started borrowing clothes from each other, it was all over. Pawing blindly at the low side table, she was able to find her shirt, at least. 

Against her better judgement, she glanced back over her shoulder to the vaguely human-shaped lump under the covers. Hawke had the duvet pulled up to her chin, her hair a tousled mess, partially covering her eyes. Which were open. Shit. 

“You’re leaving?” Hawke asked, voice thick with sleep. 

Isabela suddenly felt very exposed, and she couldn’t entirely blame it on her still being stark naked, blouse clutched in her hands. “Sorry, I fell asleep.” She didn’t know what she was apologizing for. “You must’ve done a good job wearing me out.” Smooth it over with a joke, make it sound like an accident. “But you know the rule. Be a dear and help me find my boots? Hopefully the dog didn’t get to them.”

But Hawke didn’t move. Nor did she speak, stretching out the silence so long Isabela could hear her own pulse thudding in her temples and the soft patter of rain against the windows. She prayed Hawke would fall back asleep. At least then she could continue her escape plan. Hawke would understand, if she even remembered any of it.

“Stay.” 

That was most assuredly not what Isabela wanted to hear.

“Please.” 

_Definitely_ not what Isabela wanted to hear. She stood rooted to the spot, unable to comply with Hawke’s request, but just as unable to deny it. A rush of anger overtook her, a sense of betrayal she knew was irrational yet couldn’t quash. How dare she. Hawke knew better. Isabela made it black and white. They had agreed. It was better this way. It was just fucking.

“Hawke. Don’t ask me to do that.” Isabela did her best to keep her voice from turning to steel. Orgasms made people say stupid things, after all, and—she noted with a degree of pride—Hawke certainly had her share of those that night. 

Hawke propped herself up on an elbow, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “Why not? It’s warm in my bed and you’re looking quite chilly.” Her words were simple, nonchalant, leaving an ocean of weight unspoken behind them. Hawke was an expert at obfuscating her feelings with quips, but this felt oddly transparent. 

Isabela took a step towards the bed. “We agreed not to make this complicated. Staying the night? That’s making things complicated.” This conversation was also without a doubt making things complicated. She could just leave. She _should_ just leave.

“And holding my hand while I was going down on you the other night doesn’t count as ‘making things complicated,’ I suppose. Or kissing my forehead afterward. No, no mixed signals there.” Hawke, damn her, seemed more amused than anything.

Isabela winced. She had hoped Hawke wouldn’t remember those details, given that particular tryst occurred after many, many pints at the Hanged Man. Orgasms made people say stupid things, but drink made people _do_ stupid things, including, apparently, hand-holding and _forehead kissing_ , of all things.

“A moment of stupidity and madness on my part,” she muttered, shaking her head. 

A furrow formed between Hawke’s brows, a brief flash of… something Isabela couldn’t place, something that made her stomach clench. “It’s too bloody early to dance around this,” Hawke said. “Now, come here. Your nipples are distracting.”

Hawke patted the empty space next to her, and Isabela found herself back in bed, enveloped in warmth and comfort and _Hawke_ , and hating how good it felt. She stared at a spot above Hawke’s head on the opposite wall, not willing to meet her eyes. Hawke had to know she was slipping, and if anything idiotic came out of her mouth, she couldn’t blame it on ale this time.

She couldn’t think of anything non-idiotic to say, really, so she occupied herself by tracing her fingers over the sharp jut of Hawke’s hipbone, then up, dragging across each rib, sliding along her collarbone. And then she stopped, because the urge to cup Hawke’s cheek in her palm was far too strong.

Hawke reached up with her own hand and intertwined their fingers. Isabela had no idea how that managed to feel more intimate than having Hawke’s fingers _in_ her, but it did, and she felt her defenses crumbling.

“You’re a fool,” she said weakly, more to herself than anything.

“Is that so?” Hawke smirked and kissed each of Isabela’s knuckles. “Don't you think we should be honest with each other? It might have started out as ‘just fucking,’ but it doesn’t feel that way anymore.”

Annoyed at how easily Hawke was making her melt, Isabela yanked her forward into a hard kiss, if only to feel like she had a modicum of control over the situation. When they parted, their hands were still locked together. Isabela sighed. As a captain, she had to know when to wave the white flag, even when every fiber of her being wanted to go down fighting with the ship. She surrendered.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she whispered, as though saying it too loud would irresistibly tempt fate.

“Why do you think you would hurt me?” Hawke was a breath away, and Isabela wondered if she could get out of this conversation with enough kisses. If her mouth was busy, she couldn’t say anything stupid. But, she supposed, it was already too late for that.

“Because I… well, I’m very good at fucking.” Isabela let out a snort of laughter at Hawke’s fervent nod. “Maker knows I’ve had enough practice at it. But besides that? This…” She couldn’t, wouldn’t bring herself to say _love_. “... this _thing_ , where you hold hands and kiss each other’s foreheads? I’m clueless. And that’s scary. And I… like it. Which is _terrifying_.” Letting out a shaky breath, she imagined this is what Andrastians must feel like when they confess their sins. It wasn’t very relieving, truth be told. It felt more like tightrope walking. Drunk.

Hawke was silent, seemingly lost in thought. At last, she spoke. “And when you get scared, you run.” It was true, and while there was no judgement evident in Hawke’s voice, Isabela still felt stripped bare. This is what she wanted to keep Hawke from. Doubt. 

“But I don’t want to run. Not from this. You make me feel… I don’t know. Grounded, stable.” She squeezed Hawke’s hand for emphasis. “But I don’t know what I’m doing, and I think maybe you’d want someone who does.”

Hawke chuckled. “If you honestly think _I_ have any idea what I’m doing, I must be a better liar than I thought. We’re both out to sea in a boat without oars, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, sailing metaphors. Well done.” She gave Hawke a congratulatory pat on the ass. “So the two of us together are just a giant confused mess. That’s so very lovely.” 

They drifted in their boat without oars for a time, limbs entangled, with nothing but the tick-tap-tap of rain on glass to interrupt the quiet. Isabela absentmindedly rubbed circles over the nape of Hawke’s neck, letting the fine hairs there drift through her fingers. Her mind chased its tail around and around the inside of her skull. She had to ask. She couldn’t sleep, couldn’t leave, until she did.

“Hawke…” she waited to hear a mumble of affirmation that Hawke hadn’t fallen asleep on her. “Do you think I’ll run?”

Isabela felt Hawke hesitate, stiffen ever so slightly in her arms, and her heart fell. She had to fix it. She had to make it right, had to make Hawke believe her. Pressing their foreheads together, she forced herself to stare into Hawke’s eyes for the first time that night, and even in the darkness, she saw trepidation and, perhaps—she dared to wish—hope.

“You listen to me,” she said, and it came out harsher than she intended, but she couldn’t stop; it was all going to come out, consequences be damned. “I swear on the Maker, on Andraste’s ashes, on the Creators, the Paragons, the Qun… whatever you want to believe in, I swear I would dry-dock my ships, landlock myself, chain my body to this blighted city for the rest of my life if that’s what it took for you to trust me. I can’t run from this anymore. I tried that already and failed pretty miserably at it, if you recall. I just keep coming back.” She slammed her eyes shut, unwilling to see Hawke’s reaction. “I… I am yours. If you want me to be.” 

Mercifully, Hawke kissed her before any more lunacies had the chance to spill from her lips. She gave in, desperate for salvation, for trust; if it could not come from Hawke’s words, at least, perhaps, it could come from her hands, her mouth, her tongue—a language Isabela was more attuned to. She allowed herself, for once, to not resist. There would be no pushback, no fight for control. The white flag was hoisted. 

Hawke seemed to understand intuitively, all softness and delicate pressure, like she was handling sacred glass that could shatter in a strong breeze. Like she was worshiping a deity instead of a well-worn human body. Isabela arched into her, taut as a drawn bowstring, until Hawke shifted, eased up, to let her float back to earth, before notching another arrow. Gone was the usual playful banter and whispered vulgarities; only breathing, fast, slow, faster, harder, hissing hot against Hawke’s jaw. Her last words echoed in her head as she clung to Hawke’s body like a raft in a storm, nails digging into skin: _I am yours I am yours I am yours_. 

She released with a shudder bordering dangerously close to a sob, whimpers swallowed by a kiss, thighs wrapped tight around Hawke’s waist. When Isabela’s eyes finally opened, Hawke looked so damn smug Isabela wasn’t sure if she wanted to hit her or laugh in abject relief, but her entire body felt like a puddle, and all she could do was bat ineffectually at Hawke’s arm and then grit her teeth as an aftershock made her toes curl.

Still smiling, Hawke moved over until she was pressed against Isabela’s side, leg and arm thrown over her prone body, slightly damp with sweat. Kissing Isabela’s ear, Hawke remarked, “What kind of Queen of the Eastern Seas would you be if you stayed in Kirkwall the rest of your life?” 

“I try to be vulnerable with you, and this is how you repay me? With sass?” Isabela pouted. “I would need a new title, clearly.”

“‘Queen of the Darktown Sewer’ has a certain ring to it, I think. You could have a crew of rats.”

“They’d probably listen better than men. Fewer diseases, too,” Isabela mused.

A pause. Hawke’s head rested against Isabela’s chest, buoyed up and down by her lungs. Fingers slid up her forearm and wrist, hesitant, almost shy, and their hands laced together once more.

Hawke spoke, her frivolity gone, replaced by something quiet and innocent, frightened and hopeful. “Did you mean what you said?” she asked, and Isabela could feel the sound reverberate in between her ribs.

“Which part?” Isabela said, knowing exactly which part Hawke meant. She just wanted to hear her say it.

“That you’d stay? You would really give up all those things?” There was an unspoken “for me” at the end of the sentence, but Isabela caught it clear as day.

“In a heartbeat,” she replied, the certainty of it surprising even herself. But it was true. Something had changed, and things that used to feel so important and all-encompassing were suddenly so much smaller. And things that used to feel like “just fucking” were suddenly so much bigger than that.

She tried to stay awake for a while, long after Hawke’s breathing had turned slow and deep, if only to enjoy the moment. Isabela supposed she could get used to this foreign feeling of safety and security, even as the world outside their room seemed on the brink of madness and destruction. Sleep began to weigh heavy on her eyelids, and each blink took longer and longer, more of an effort. She kissed the crown of Hawke’s head, the spot where her hair never wanted to cooperate. Maybe it would work. Maybe she could make it work. 

Isabela woke up in Hawke’s arms once more, this time with sunlight streaming through the window. She smiled.


End file.
